


finish a war (start another)

by Malapropian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crow au, Deal with a Devil, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Graphic Description of regrowing a body, M/M, Oneshot, Resurrected Peter Hale, The Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Vomiting, brief cannibalistic urges, brief dissociation, complete for now, non-consensual magical branding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26781421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: To destroy the Argents, there's no deal Peter wouldn't make.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 11
Kudos: 183
Collections: Teen Wolf Bingo, The Steter Network





	finish a war (start another)

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I know I have other stuff going on, and I haven't posted for most of the year, but it's October. Just let me post a horror au.
> 
> I posted a moodboard for this story earlier this year. [Find it here.](https://dialmformaledictions.tumblr.com/post/190904424571/crow-au)
> 
> Edited to add: Totally forget to say that this also fills my Bingo square for "In the Woods"
> 
> Check out the end notes for tag explanations.

Behind a barrier of mountain ash, Peter howls as the Argent woman flips open a book of matches.

She takes her time tearing it out and lingers over the strike. Her pleasure blooms, a foulness that mixes with the sulfurous reek. She—her name is Kate, his mind supplies helpfully—drops the match. 

The fragile flame flickers. It almost gutters out, but no. It wavers against the gasoline, and Peter’s world burns away.

-

In the smoldering wreck of his sister’s home, Peter wakes to a world of pain. It’s agony as his burned and broken flesh reforms, nerves screaming as muscle and sinew reknits over blackened bone. Organs settle into their rightful places, rudely making space as they must.

Once it’s done, once he’s whole, he rolls over and empties his new stomach. He hardly has the strength to stay out of the puddle. Resurrection has taken all of his energy, but he needs to leave before anyone can find him. His stomach lurches as the grotesque perfume of smoke, gasoline, and barbeque hits his nose. He’s never been this hungry in his life—either of them. Peter gags, throat working helplessly until bile splashes on the blackened wood.

He allows himself a moment to cry from the pain and frustration, the trauma of the night. All too soon, Peter tucks it away where it can join the rage in his heart that will fuel him through the days to come.

Shaky as a newborn, Peter rises to his feet. Sick with hunger, betrayed by his body, he staggers away from the reek of his pack’s corpses and their ruined home. This is his last life, and he needs to make it count. Kate Argent may have started this war, but Peter will see it finished his way.

Inch by painful inch, Peter stumbles to the treeline where he can sink to all fours. It’s a relief to shift into beta form. At least, beta form is what he had intended, but instead of the familiar wolfman transformation, Peter slides past it and into the full wolf form that had always eluded him.

He feels invincible, new alpha power coursing through his body, healing the last of his hurts. Peter has never been this strong. Ultimately unwilling to murder his sister, he’s resigned himself to being a beta—or omega—until his death or lucky happenstance.

If he marvels at the change, if part of him doesn’t regret the sacrifice… Peter has never promised to be good, only himself. He picks up one black paw and then the other, flicking out huge claws with barely a twitch of muscle. Red eyes stare down at his claws, gleaming darkly in the moonlight. 

Peter tells himself _Talia would have understood,_ but far better and more accurate to say: _Talia’s dead. Nothing bothers her anymore._

He’ll use his new power to give the dead Hales a worthy memorial, but hunters are accustomed to werewolves, even an alpha can be caught in their traps. Even Talia, one of the strongest alphas he’s known, had not been proof against their machinations.

No. His revenge must be flawless. Peter bursts into motion, loping through the Preserve in a ground-eating stride. To go after the Argent empire, Peter will need more than this, and he knows just where to find it.

Peter runs faster, paws flying through the brush. It’s time to make another bargain.

\- 

For one marked as he is, by his death and return, it’s easy to find. All Peter has to do is wish, so he does with all of his heart. He runs north, praying to the strange creature he’d found as a teenager. Runs until he receives an answer: the barest whiff of feathers, honeysuckle, and blood. And soon, he crosses the invisible barrier into… Elsewhere. 

The moon wavers in the sky above him, shifting through its phases as though time itself has no meaning here. When Peter reaches the rusted iron tracks where the crow makes his home, it settles into golden fullness. Here, in the heart of a demon’s lair, a sweet carrion scent overpowers him. Hot and rich. _Life-giving._

Dimly, he’s aware of awful hunger. A gnawing pain that demands more and more attention as he breathes in the humid, blood-flavoured air, but there’s no time for that, not yet. 

Peter grits his teeth and shudders back into human form. He’s a newly resurrected alpha werewolf without an anchor, so his other self fights to maintain control, but some instinct tells him he should be on two legs for this. When power stirs beneath his feet, he knows he made the right call.

With the ashes of his family still in his mouth, Peter speaks the name.

_“Stiles.”_

The world seems to shiver as the sibilant name rolls off his tongue, and then the demon is suddenly there, a dark humanoid shape lounging on a bare tree branch as easily as he would in crow form.

Bright yellow eyes narrow to slits, and Stiles says, “I felt a disturbance in the force, and here you are, a fresh newborn wolf. I hope you appreciate my efforts.”

Peter’s mouth twitches, in amusement or anger, he doesn’t know. Either way, the demon’s penchant for pop culture references is no less surreal than the first time they met.

He forces himself to meet that gaze with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “That doesn’t count as my boon. I didn’t ask for extra lives, or to be brought back.”

A laugh bursts free from Stiles, as though Peter has surprised or delighted him in some mortal way. He laughs and laughs until he doubles over and slaps the branch.

“Humans,” he cackles.

Peter lifts his lip and sneers. “Werewolf.”

A pale, bony hand waves at him, dismissing the correction as something of little consequence. He laughs again, shorter this time, and jumps down from his seat, reappearing in front of Peter as a tall hooded figure, in a robe of black feathers. Yellow eyes blaze from underneath the darkness of his hood.

That same hand so languid before, darts up to snare Peter’s chin. “Mortals are so amusing,” he croons. “Such wonderful little liars, and you’re one of the best.”

Peter raises his chin despite the fingers digging into his face. “I didn’t ask for this!”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Stiles mimics him, cruelty edging his voice. “When you lay dying in that house with the corpses of your family and didn’t wish for another chance? For longer life to take your revenge? For something terrible to befall the Argents after this massacre? Don’t disappoint me again, Peter.”

Stung, Peter shoves at the demon, but his werewolf strength is useless. Why is it always so useless when he needs it?

“Fine!” he explodes. “I did. I wished with my dying breath, through the burning and the choking and reek of my family’s flesh. Through the pain of my own claws. I wished with all my heart that I’d gone to you and asked for something. What good was it to save my wish when I still lose everything?”

Peter pounds at Stiles for long minutes, exhausting himself. He doesn’t even know when Stiles lets go of his face and wraps him in an embrace that smells of blood and feathers until his fists ache and his face is wet with more of his useless tears. 

“What’s your wish, Peter?” Stiles’s voice is soft, almost tender, in his ear.

“I want them back,” he begs helplessly, hating himself. He knows instinctively that it must be beyond Stiles’s power or it would have already happened. 

Stiles strokes Peter’s hair. “Ask me for power, for revenge, an eternal life where you want for nothing. Ask and I will see it done.”

Somehow, even though he’d known the futility, the rejection cracks something deep within him. That one shard of hope he’d overlooked. Peter shudders and forces himself to accept his new reality.

He lifts his head, eyes glowing red with the power he’d only dreamed of possessing. “Let’s kill some Argents.”

“That, little mortal, is something I can do.” Stiles releases him and steps back. “Now ask me properly.”

Peter kneels in the dry dirt, feels it crumble beneath his weight, and takes Stiles’s hand. The pale skin gleams white in the moonlight. The too-light weight of his hand serves as a reminder that Stiles is a crow no matter his form. He grasps the demon’s bird-boned hand with more than human strength and makes his bargain.

“I wish for your aid as long as I declare vendetta against the Argents. Help me destroy them, and I will give this second life back to you.”

Stiles hums under his breath. “I owe you a boon, but you give me a bargain. What a funny mortal you are. Suppose I say yes. What kind of aid do you ask?”

“Anything that will help me carry out my revenge. I expect you to take initiative and use your powers as necessary.”

“Do you expect me to kill for you, little wolf? Will we end their lives and sup on flesh and blood under the moonlight?”

Peter shivers at the low, seductive tones, and his doubts bubble to the surface of his mind. Is he really doing this, bargaining with a demon? But what choices are left to him? To somehow rebuild a life barren of his family and pack? 

_No._

Everything in him shies away from that possible future. He can’t, and he won’t, and this. _It’s the only option._

Stiles is the best way forward, and if some part of him thrills at the demon’s touch and attention, at the inhuman focus and knowledge in those eyes… he’s lost everything. No one can fault Peter for taking what pleasures are left to him.

He looks up through his lashes like the ingenue he’s never been. “You’ll have to find out.”

Casually, Stiles pushes his hood back, revealing a youthful face of terrible beauty. A riot of brown hair crowns his Puckish features and pretty pink lips. It’s nothing like Peter expected.

The demon smiles at him, innocent as a saint, and the first tendrils of worry bloom in Peter’s gut.

“Sorry about this,” Stiles says. “You asked for a bargain, and this is part and parcel.”

He gasps as pain shoots through his hand. It feels like fire. He looks down, frantic, but Stiles tightens his grip. 

“Just a little more,” Stiles promises. “You’re doing so well.”

If anyone had asked him, Peter would disagree. The back of his hand is on fire. He’s melting for the second time, and blessedly his mind retreats from the awfulness. It takes him to a place where nothing hurts, and the Argents are dead, and everything is good.

It’s with a vague regret that his awareness returns. The hazy place had been, if not nice, an absence of pain. And there’s been so much pain tonight. 

A familiar bird-boned hand cups his face, and Peter, in the puppyish way of young werewolves, can’t keep himself from rubbing up against it, hoping for security and affection from someone vastly stronger than he’ll ever be.

“Sleep, Peter,” Stiles says gently. “We have a compact. Your enemies are mine until your vengeance is satisfied. Let my mark on your body be a sign of this bond.”

Peter tries to stand and sags back to his knees. Stiles shakes his head at him, all disappointed father despite his youthful form.

“Sleep,” he says again. “When you wake up, we’ll be ready to start our hunt.”

Peter struggles to force tired lips to form words. “Tomorrow,” he demands. 

“Tomorrow,” Stiles agrees. “Now sleep.”

Whether by some compulsion or the utter exhaustion of his body, Peter obeys Stiles almost instantly this time.

_Tomorrow,_ he tells himself. _We’ll start then._

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my WIP folder for a while, and finally decided that this made a decent enough stopping point. I'd love to continue the story, but I can't commit to it—as you can see from my posted works. I've been slowly working on some of those other WIPs, and maybe I'll be able to update one of them before too long.
> 
> Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns regarding the tags! Or leave a comment if you want, I'd love to hear what you think. :)
> 
> Spoilery tag explanations:  
> Graphic description of regrowing a body: Possible body horror imagery and general grossness while Peter comes back to life.  
> Brief cannibalistic urges: Peter find the smell of his dead family hunger-inducing.  
> Vomiting: Peter vomits a few times post-resurrection.  
> Non-consensual magical branding: At the end of the bargain, Stiles marks Peter without warning.  
> Brief dissociation: The pain of the branding causes Peter to dissociate.


End file.
